


This one's gonna cost you, pays to know

by heavenisalibrary



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: AU, F/M, why am i writing AUs i'm too lazy to do them properly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenisalibrary/pseuds/heavenisalibrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gentleman she's meeting tonight claims to be tall and attractive, but slightly awkward. She appreciates his honesty and holds out hope that — if not tall and attractive — he's at least be kind and considerate, which she could do with, after a particularly poor bout of judgment in her last client. Nothing she couldn't handle, and every once in a while she admits she's itching for a bit of conflict, but tonight she just wants to enjoy a nice dinner, to her job, and get paid. Simple, calm, controlled. (Well, she'll do away with calm, if he turns out to be an animal in the sack — but somehow, that never seems to be the case.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	This one's gonna cost you, pays to know

**Author's Note:**

> For the R/D Ficathon on tumblr. 
> 
> Prompt: Human AU - River is an escort meeting her client and John is meeting a blind date - both at the same restaurant. Each’s partner backs out and doesn’t show, but the two unknowingly meet and think they’re waiting for each other. The night starts off well and they hit it off, but when they get to John’s flat, they realize something isn’t quite right.

River likes to meet her clients in neutral locations, especially when she's meeting a man. It's not that she worries for her safety — she's got enough martial arts experience to make just about anybody blanche — but rather men are rather more prone to exaggerating online. And not that she judges, but she's an escort, not a prostitute; she has to put a great deal more forth than just sex, and she's not exactly hurting for cash or business, so she can afford to be a little choosey. She's not interested in showing up at somebody's door step, having been told they're a powerful, six-foot-tall, incredibly well-endowed but lonely individual only to find a short, balding computer programmer living in their mother's basement. And she's certainly not interested in wasting her time on anybody who can't at least pretend to respect her person. No. She spent far too much of her life being at the beck and call of others; now that she's gained a little leverage, she's going to bring everyone  _else_ to heel.

The gentleman she's meeting tonight claims to be tall and attractive, but slightly awkward. She appreciates his honesty and holds out hope that — if not tall and attractive — he's at least be kind and considerate, which she could do with, after a particularly poor bout of judgment in her last client. Nothing she couldn't handle, and every once in a while she admits she's itching for a bit of conflict, but tonight she just wants to enjoy a nice dinner, to her job, and get paid. Simple, calm, controlled. (Well, she'll do away with calm, if he turns out to be an animal in the sack — but somehow, that never seems to be the case.)

She enters the restaurant and scans the guests, knowing that he's meant to be wearing a suit. Of course, it's a nice restaurant, and so nearly everybody's wearing a suit. She sighs, blowing a curl out of her face and thinking about giving up on the whole thing entirely, when she hears a clatter and the sound of breaking glass. She turns around just in time to see a tall, handsome gentleman in a suit leap to his feet and awkwardly apologize, over and over again, to the waiter, who he'd just accidentally tripped and sent flying with a tray full of glasses.  _Check_ , she thinks, and approaches the scene. 

It's a rare thing indeed for her to agree with any client's description of himself — he's certainly tall, and he's  _certainly_ handsome she thinks as she catches a closer look. Not anywhere near her type, but there's something to the graceless way his body moves and to the flush on his cheeks and to the sharp angles of his cheekbones in the low light that she's not even a  _little_ upset about. She might even enjoy this. River bends to help the waiter pick up the glass, and once the waiter bustles away, the man looks at her, going even redder. Even his ears blush. She smiles.

"I'm  _so_ sorry," he says, "honestly, I'm never this clumsy. Well, no, that's not true. I'm always clumsy — but I prefer to think of it as intentionally causing disorder, or unintentionally starting excitement, or — well, it doesn't matter. Thank you."

"Do you always talk this much?"

"Can't help it," he admits, tugging at his ridiculous hair. Oh, but she wants to run her hands through it so badly she almost reaches out to do so. "Are you... uh, that is — are you..." he turns an even deeper shade of red, and her smile widens as he finally whispers, " _meeting_ somebody? Or are you here with somebody already?"

"Yes," she says, leaning toward him and smiling with her teeth.

"Hang on," he says, and she sees his hands fluttering about as she pulls out her chair, hangs her coat on the back, and sits down, "did you think I was asking you to join me, or is that a yes or —"

"Yes," she repeats.

He stares at her, closing his dropped jaw, and finally smiles slightly. His eyes go a bit soft and his lips do this thing — it's not quite smiling, but there's warmth to his expression, and it makes her stomach flutter in an entirely unfamiliar way. She's used to lust, but this is new.

"Who are you?" he asks, twirling away from her and dropping into his own seat.

"Melody Pond," she says, extending her hand. She's not about to give a client her real name, after all. 

He surprises her by shaking her hand exuberantly — usually clients try to be suave and kiss the back of it, which is mostly just embarrassing for everyone involved, and she's touched by the unassumingness of it.

"John Smith," he says. "Thank you for actually showing up."

River laughs. "You've been stood up before, after arranging this sort of thing?"

"Half a dozen times," he says, flushing again as he reaches for his wine glass. She can't imagine what he'd said to previous escorts to get stood up, and she's a bit mortified on his behalf that he's fessing up to not even being able to get a date with a glorified hooker, but she smiles anyway.

"Well, one out of seven isn't bad."

"Liar," he says, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her. She has the insane urge to just eat him up.

"Isn't that what you all want, on these outings?" River says, startling herself with her frankness. "Me to make you feel good?" She leans toward him slightly, sliding a hand along the tablecloth, fully aware that she's giving him quite the view down her dress. His eyes, predictably, flick downward, and he stutters briefly before her finds her face again, and his voice.

"No," he says, shaking his head, "I mean no to the first part. Not to the second. Unless that's offensive, and then no to both. Erm."

River throws her head back and laughs out loud. "Oh, sweetie," she says, "I'm going to have  _such_ fun with you."

 

 

Dinner is pleasant. More than pleasant — dinner is  _excellent_. The food is good, of course, and even though he's got terrible taste in wine, he's got a good enough sense of humor to let her tease the daylights out of him until he admits that he hates wine altogether, and just looks for whatever's closest to grape juice. What's truly remarkable, though, is the company. He's awkward, certainly, but not without a certain charm. He actually listens to what she's saying, and asks questions, and shares his thoughts, and talks to quickly she feels like her head is spinning, but it's in a good way. It feels like she's finally being put through her paces, after weeks of spending time with clients who wanted the fantasy, rather than the person. She can tell he likes when she teases him, and he gets adorably flustered by her innuendo, and when he orders custard for dessert, he tells her the entire history of the invention of custard. It's ridiculous, and sweet, and she's both incredibly pleased by the evening and incredibly wary of it.

He's a client, after all. She can't have feelings for a client. He is, for all of the song and dance, paying for sex, and there's such an inherent power imbalance there that she'd never even  _consider_ dating a client. She's made exceptions in the past, when she was much younger and far less wise, and it always ended badly — even when money ceased, there was always the sense of currency, and a feeling of betrayal when she refused to accept it any longer. 

So she tries to ignore the way her heart somersaults in her chest as he grabs her coat from her chair before she can and holds it out to her, and tries to ignore the goosebumps she feels when she slips into it, and he leans into her ever so slightly as she rights it. He trips over his own feet as they walk out the door, but his hand rests at the small of her back, and she can feel it burning, even through her coat and her dress. This is very, very not good. 

"So," he says, pausing as she turns to face him and tugging at his ridiculous bowtie. "This was nice — this was good. We should, erm, do it again sometime?"

She waits for him to make a move, or segue into some horribly awkward invite back to his flat, but nothing comes. She raises a brow. "What, that's it?"

"Am I forgetting something?" he asks, frowning.

"Oh, shut up," she says, reaching out to grab his bowtie and pull him toward her. He nearly topples them both over, but she holds him upright, pressing her body against his and kissing him. She can  _feel_ his arms flailing at his sides, so she just gives his bowtie another tug until he relaxes enough to rest an adorably tentative hand on her shoulder, one resting against her hair — though he doesn't tangle his fingers in it — and kisses her back. He's slow and careful in the way he kisses. There's nothing demanding to it, no needy sounds or grasping hands, no teeth, just the gentle press of his lips against hers. When she finally releases his bow tie, he all but falls backward, blinking at her.

"Right," he says, " _right_. This was unexpected."

"How unexpected could it be, sweetie? It was all arranged before hand."

"Yes, well, still, there's never any guarantees," he says, "usually when you use the internet to do things  _off_ the internet the reality is deeply disappointing and sometimes a little dangerous.  _You_ are unexpected."

She feels her cheeks flushing at the compliment, and at the way he licks his lips as he looks at her like he's won the lottery or something. "I can be dangerous."

"I'll just bet you can," he says, his voice dropping an octave and a half, and she thinks she could swoon from listening to that alone.

"Enough cheek," she says, pressing up against him again. This time he doesn't flail, just looks back at her with that same strange, soft expression. "Shall we go back to yours?"

He nearly swallows his tongue at that, but eventually she gets him into a cab and he finds his voice in time to give the driver directions. He's by far the strangest client she's ever had to deal with. It's almost like he doesn't even realize she's a sure thing. She shouldn't like that — she kind of does, a bit.

 

 

She strips off her coat the moment they get inside, handing it off to John and not bothering to look back as he sets about hanging it. His house is small and strange with all sorts of knick-knacks all over everything and so many colors she wishes she knew an interior designer she could recommend to him. He natters on as he ushers her into the living room, but she pushes on forward, down the hall and opening the door most likely to be his bedroom.  He splutters, following her inside as she sits down on the bed and leans back. 

"What are you  _doing_?" he asks, though his eyes catch on her legs as she crosses them, tracing over the bare skin of her thighs as he dress rides up.

River isn't really sure what she's doing; usually she lets the client set the pace, unless specifically asked not to do that. Typically she goes back to their place, they get her a drink, she bats her eyes, places a hand on their thigh, and things go the predictable route from there. In this case, she wants to get this over with — she doesn't think she can stand flirting with him any longer, because she isn't playacting. She  _is_ flirting with him and he's flirting back and she likes it and doesn't know how to stop it. He looks at her and things just  _happen_. So she decides to take the lead, take him to bed, and get the hell out before he can get any further beneath her previously thought to be impenetrable skin.

"Come on, sweetie," River says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and sticking her chest out slightly. His eyes drop to it, and then back to her eyes — she grins as they fall again, though, and he cringes at himself. "We both know where this is headed."

"Do we?" John says, scrubbing a hand over his face, "because I'm not so sure anymore. I thought we'd — I don't know — have some coffee and, um, play some chess or something."

River laughs again. "Honey, I get that you haven't done this before, but —"

"What?!" he splutters, "I've done  _this_ before!" He flails his arms in the general direction of the bed, and she furrows her brow. Before she can speak, though, he lurches toward her, kneeling on the ground in front of her and grabbing her hands in both of his as she goggles at his bizarre behavior. "Melody, you seem brilliant. And I want to get to know you better but don't you think we should — you know — go a bit... slower?" _  
_

"This is already one of the longer evenings I've ever had," she admits, "not in a bad way, just in a you're-paying-by-the-hour way."

"What?"

"And what did you mean you've done this before?" River says, "you said you've been stood up whenever you've tried in the past, which is highly unprofessional if you ask me but —"

"I thought you meant..." he trails off, looking around furtively, and she can't help the patronizing noise she makes in the back of her throat as he whispers, "I thought you meant to say  _sex_. Wait — what  _did_ you mean?"

"The escort service?" River says, totally baffled. 

"The — !?" he jumps back to his feet, tugging a hand through his hair. "I didn't use an escort service! We met on a dating app!"

"Honey  _no_ ," River says, "you hired me for the evening, didn't you?"

"No!" he shouts, "I set up a date after talking to you online!"

River gapes at him. "I think... there's been a misunderstanding..."

"You're not stargirl342?"

"No," River says, "although you should never date someone with a username like that, what were you thinking? Ooh, and I'm just now realizing some poor girl ended up on a date with a man who thinks she's an escort. Bad luck."

" _Melody_ ," he says.

"River," she corrects. He's not a client, at any rate. That explains just about all of his strange behavior over the evening, and she'd be happy about the situation if it didn't also mean that he now  _knew_ she was an escort, so any hopes of salvaging any normal relationship were preemptively dashed. "My real name is River Song."

"That one sounds even more made up," he says.

"It is," River says, "my dad's name is Williams, but Melody Williams sounds like a geography teacher."

"Melody Pond sounds like a superhero."

"River Song sounds like me," she says. Shrugging, she stands, ignoring the stab of regret in her chest as she looks at him. The whole evening had been bewildering in many ways, but she had been looking forward to at least shagging him, since she couldn't have much more than that; now she was going to go home, without a paycheck, with this strange ache in her chest,  _and_ frustrated to boot. For all of his flailing and inability to touch her without blushing, he had this way of looking at her that made her burn all over. "Well, sweetie, this has been sufficiently embarrassing. I think I'm going to leave."

"Yes, alright," he says. He nods at her. She nods at him, then gestures to the door. He mutters an apology and steps out of her way. When she nods at him again, feeling more uncomfortable than she's ever felt in her life, he extends a hand. "Nice to meet you?"

She rolls her eyes and shakes with him, but when she goes to pull her hand away, his fingers interlace with hers, and their joined hands fall between them. She steps toward him slightly, or he steps toward her, but somehow they're nose to nose, and then she's kissing him again, her arms thrown over his shoulders as he stumbles back into the wall, quickly gathering her to him and kissing her back with far more enthusiasm than he had on the curb. Now that he's less nervous, and seems able to touch her without seizing, he's quite capable. His tongue slides into her mouth, running over the roof and tangling with hers in a way that makes her sigh into him, and his hands grip her hips tightly, pulling her flush against him.

"On second thought," he says, pulling away with a dizzy sort of smile that makes her knees buckle. "You could stay."

"Could I, now?"

"Oh, definitely," he says, "the night, the week, the month. Forever. You know."

"That's a bit presumptuous," she says, "we've only just met. Plus, I thought you were paying me. Doesn't it bother you, that I'm an escort?"

"Why should it?" he says. "Does it bother you?"

"No," she says, squinting at him. "It  _really_ doesn't bother you?"

He kisses her again, and she feels like she could melt when he pulls away. No one's ever had this sort of effect on her before — it's a bit terrifying and insanely gratifying all at once. 

"You're an adult. You can make your own decisions — I hardly imagine you need someone to take care of you."

She kisses him, tugging at his lapels until she spins them so her back is pressed against the wall, and he's pressed against her.

"I know we've only just met," she says, "but you seem a little bit perfect. So what's the catch, hm? Skeletons in your closet? Horrible morning breath?"

"Nah," he says, "I'm an absolute dream. But you can only stay on one condition."

She raises a brow, finally running a hand through his ridiculous hair. He leans into her touch like a puppy. "What's that?"

"You promise not to charge me in the morning."

"Oh, shut up!" she says, tugging him in for another kiss and swallowing his laughter.

She does stay the night, and the one following. In fact, after that, she never really leaves.


End file.
